


Let's Get Liminal

by hedgerowhag



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cryptozoology, Featuring: too much caffeine, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trans Character, and poor music choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8861173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: Armie just wanted to take out the trash and feed the friendly local obese raccoon but instead ends up plying a stranger with coffee to make them stop talking about the mothman.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nereidlilies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nereidlilies/gifts).



The bell rings as the last customer leaves the diner. Armie drops the cloth he has been using to scrub the coffee makers for the past hour, trying to avoid silence that might invite a conversation with a stranger. The clock reads three in the morning, clicking through the quiet.

Night clings like ink to the windows that reflect the yellow lights of the diner interior and the pink and blue neon of menu signs. Armie can see his own reflection, tiny compared to the industrial coffee makers and the glass displays of the food bars. The collar of Armie’s shirt is wrangled, the glinting nametag crooked and the apron needs to be retied.

If Armie looks past his ashen reflection, he can see the Blockbusters sign under the orange eye of a streetlamp. It’s cracked and bleached by the sun, standing over the parking lot that sits empty before the desolate store. The light of the Last Order Diner sign falls over the boarded-up windows in a bright pulse of red.

During the summer when Armie arrived for his midnight shifts, he would notice the tall skeletal flowers swaying on the doorstep of the rundown Blockbusters. The purple blossoms winked at him in the twilight dark as he pulled into the lot. Armie is almost certain that they were opium poppies growing in the concrete cracks, but he has yet to collect a specimen for further inspection.

Armie turns from the reflection, trying not to think of the hollow eyes of the store across the road.

There are never good music on the radio at this time of the night – unless you consider vaporwave as an acceptable substitute for music. Armie takes his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. A few taps of his fingers and the sound of ‘Let’s Dance to Joy Division’ falls through the diner.

The music plays from the counter as Armie goes into the kitchen where he begins to clean the floors and wipe down the grease stained counters. He leaves the ketchup gunked cutlery for last hours of the shift when it becomes a fight to stay awake. The jet of freezing tap water will be sure to do the job.

Unloading the overstuffed bins, Armie drags the trash bags to the backdoor. He finds a plywood crate that had been used to pack deliveries to the diner and throws inside half eaten scraps of burgers and hotdogs from the trash. Armie hopes that it will be a sufficient sacrifice to the patron raccoon of the trash heaps behind the diner.

The first day Armie worked at the Last Order Diner he was assigned to an evening shift. He spent his break feeding an elderly cat that sat at the backdoor, whining for food every time he tried to go back inside after carrying out the trash. Sometime toward midnight, while taking out the last load of rancid food, Armie heard shuffling from behind the industrial waste containers.

Armed with a can pepper spray, Armie crept toward sound. At first, he saw a large shadow scooting across the floor. It was a sort of a lump pulling itself along the concrete using one skinny limb. Armie heard something wet squelching from where the lump came to huddle. When Armie stepped closer to look, he almost vomited: a gnarled wet muzzle ate the remains of what Armie recognised as the elderly cat. He swore that he saw lumps of its earlier dinner.

Once back inside the diner, Armie asked, as calmly as he could, if there is a rodent problem in the area because he just saw a rat the seize of a fucking dog eating a cat. The kitchen staff smiled and said that it must be Scooter, the raccoon that figured it’s easier to find food camping out behind the diner until someone brings out the trash.

The creature had grown so obese it’s unable move except by scooting – hence the name: Scooter. Someone had felt sorry for the raccoon and placed the lid of a pizza box under it so that it doesn’t scratch its belly while shuffling.

Armie had attempted to break the food chain but it costed him a leather shoe and half a can of pepper spray. He now brings offering every night to appease the mighty Scooter.

Picking up the crate, Armie opens the door with his elbow. He can hear the notes of ‘Come Together’ play from the front of the diner as he steps outside.

The temperature has dropped since the beginning of the shift and Armie’s skin stings from the sudden chill. Within reach of the orange streetlights, Armie can see the grey landscape of the grasslands that surround the suburbs and guard the city from the bareness – everything it isn’t.

The stink of decaying waste hits Armie with a waft of a cold breeze as he steps from the light of the diner. The trash disposal containers stand in fenced enclosures, overfilled to the point some of staff have left trash bags leaning against the fences. That’s where Scooter feasts, digging his claws into the thin plastic liners and chewing until they break.

Armie hears shuffling, a kind of back and forth sound as if the fat raccoon is stuck between two trashcans.

“Here, Scooter, look what I’ve got for you,” Armie tempts the creatures, rattling the crate as he looks between the shadows of the containers. He hears rustling again. The ugly fucker must’ve already found dinner. “Come here, Scooter, you fat fuck.”

“You looking for a dog?”

Armie snaps up, bracing the crate like a shield.

Between the crooked trashcans that lean like crumbling towers there is a deckchair, placed just out of reach of the steam that pours from the vents. The said deckchair is stuffed with a figure dressed in what Armie can out make from the shadows to be a ski coat and cargo pants that have been folded up to accommodate the unlaced combat boots. In the dark of the back street, Armie can’t see the stranger’s face under the floppy eared hat.

“No?” Armie says. He notices the glint of binoculars in the person’s lap.

“Who is ‘Scooter’ then?” They sound young, perhaps Armie’s age if he isn’t mistaking.

“Raccoon.”

“You named a raccoon?”

“Not me. Staff.” He nods toward the diner.

“’Kay.” The stranger turns from Armie and looks off somewhere between the trash containers.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Armie tries, thinking about the pepper spray he left in the car. “This is private property.”

There is a snort. “Shouldn’t you tell that to the raccoon?”

Armie doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he tries again. “I’ll call the police.”

“And say what?” the stranger laughs and the deckchair shakes. “There is a man… Near a public diner?”

Armie’s hands are beginning to hurt from holding the crate. It’s cold and he doesn’t know what is meant to be the next course of action. So, when the silence drags, he asks, “What… Are you doing here?”

“Waiting,” the stranger replies smugly.

“For what?”

“The creatures of the liminal spaces.”

Armie stares at the shadow blankly. It’s really getting cold now.

There is a sigh. “ _Cryptids_. You know what those are, right?”

“Oh my god,” Armie whispers. “You are an idiot.”

“Hey.” A hand in a fingerless glove is thrusted out, one digit pointed at Armie accusatively. “Don’t shit on someone else’s dreams.”

“Uh-huh.” Armie walks toward a trash container and drops the crate onto the floor. “Ever seen one of your cryptids? Bigfoot maybe?” As he unloads the scraps of food he hears shuffling and when Armie turns, he notices that the figure has sunk deeper into the deckchair. “You never have, have you?”

There is more silence.

“Knew it,” Armie mutters, picking up the crate and flinging it into a trash container.

“They are real. People just want us to think they’re not.”

Armie scoffs and heads to the back to the diner. “And when you do see one, what are you gonna do?” He picks up a trash bag from behind the door and slings it over a shoulder. The plastic and cardboard digs into his back through the liner. “Nobody will believe you if you say that you’ve seen bigfoot.”

“I’ll record it.” The stranger lifts something from beside the deckchair. It’s a camera bag and Armie can see a lens glinting from underneath the unzipped flap.

“You don’t have the guts.”

“I’ll have you know I’m ready to take a saw to a chain link fence to prove my masculinity.”

Armie blinks at that, before shrugging and saying, “That camera is a waste of money.” Armie stands beside the waste container and, using the momentum, swings the bag up and throws it inside the container. “Shouldn’t you be spending it on college instead?”

“Who said I go to college? Wait. Are you calling me smart?”

Armie rolls his eyes and goes after the second bag. “You are wasting your time,” he says. “You aren’t going to find anything out there.” Armie nods to the grasslands that peek between the waste containers. “The place is empty.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Armie throws the last bag over the fence and turns toward the stranger, crossing his arms. “You aren’t going to find anything by chasing a figment of imagination. It’s a waste of time.”

Fabric hushes as one booted leg is thrown over the knee of the other. “Then why are you still standing out here in the freezing cold wearing that flimsy shirt that won’t even save you from a stiff breeze?”

“I’m—I am _not_ cold.” Armie knows that it’s an awful lie the moment he says those words because a bra would actually be a great idea right now. He holds his crossed arms a little higher.

“Then maybe you would like to join me?” There is a sweep of an arm that directs Armie’s attention toward the heaps of over spilling trashcans.

“No, thank you.” Armie’s fingers are beginning to numb but, for some reason, he is still stood there, looking at the stranger sat in a motherfucking deckchair with binoculars, watching the empty grasslands. He can’t even see their fucking face. What if they are a serial killer? Instead of worrying, Armie finds himself asking, “What’s your name?”

“Well, Armitage, since you so kindly introduced yourself, I’m Ben.”

“How do you know my name?” Armie demands. Every instinct is slamming like a train crash inside his head, screaming for Armie to run.

“Nametag.” The stranger taps his own chest. “Saw it when you walked out.”

Armie’s shoulders slump. “Oh.”

A sound like a ringing bike bell comes from the diner. It takes a moment for Armie to remember that it’s his ringtone; after concluding that the bell above the diner’s door is the only sound that will get Armie’s attention, Phasma took a recording and set it as his ringtone. (He pointedly refuses to admit that she was right.)

“I’ll—” Armie looks between the door and the stranger— Ben. “I’ll be right back.”

“The burgers are calling!” Ben lifts a gloved fist in the air. “Go and rescue them damsels!”

Armie doesn’t bother sneering as he returns to the relative safety and warmth of the brightly lit diner. The phone is buzzing between the coffee makers when Armie picks it up moments before the line disconnects.

For the next half hour Armie explains essay title proposals to a classmate – who he doesn’t remember giving his number to (his mother’s drilled lessons in patience and manners keep him from hanging up).

Then, the bell above the door rings and Armie quickly excuses himself from the conversation. The customer sits at the far end of the diner and Armie makes the order reflexively, bringing the plates to the table within minutes. A couple trickles into the diner. They look like hitchhikers and Armie’s hypothesis is confirmed by the smell that hangs above them and the Patagonia label stamped caps. But they pay well and wish Armie a good night as they leave.

Once he is alone again, Armie goes to the backdoor and steps into the frigid night. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and clasps his arms – trying to warm himself up.

“Did you find your sasquatches yet?” asks Armie as he walks along the wall of the diner where the trashcans stand in parade.

When there isn’t an immediate reply, Armie stops. Any lump of trash could be the cryptid hunting stranger and Armie doesn’t want to bother trying his luck by touch testing. “Ben?” he calls out.

Again, silence.

Wind hushes over the flatland grasses and tires crunch on the road that leaves the city and the suburbs behind as it falls into the emptiness.

The phone shrills from the diner and Armie considers throwing himself to the floor for Scooter to eat rather than listen to caffeine spiked drivel again.

 

-o-

 

There should probably be a hole in the counter from the number of times Armie ran the cloth over the white plastic surface. He swept and mopped the floor exactly six times, taken four orders, cleaned all the cutlery, changed the filters in the coffee makers and replaced the food on the displays since his shift began. Now, all Armie has to do is wait for the bell to ring over the door and smile like the perfect little drone of capitalism.

However, on a night shift the bell never rings until the hours between five and seven in the morning. So, the only task left to occupy Armie is to keep staring at the Blockbusters sign across the road as The Wombats play in the background of the diner.

Armie checks the clock that hangs in its perfect halo of baby blue plastic above the neon of the menu signs. It’s three in the morning on the mark.

Armie drops the cloth and goes through the dormant kitchen to the backdoor where a crate full of cold fries, over flipped burger patties and wrongly delivered waffles waits. Armie forgoes his coat, deciding he will be back inside as soon as he locates Scooter.

The cold air hits Armie and he feels his joints begin to ache. Suddenly, Armie realises that twenty is, in fact, an old age and maybe he should start considering his options with arthritis. The door is swung closed behind Armie by the draft and he is left standing in the herd of industrial waste containers, surrounded by their stench.

Armie clicks his tongue in the same manner someone would call up a dog. “Sco-oter! Where are you? It’s dinner time!” He rattles the crate. “Smell that? Burnt burgers! Your favourite!” Armie isn’t sure if it’s the wind that rifles through the scraps of trash or the raccoon beginning to shuffle toward the source of sustenance. Armie follows the sound with the call of “Here, you fat shit!”

A white light floods over the garbage disposal containers. Armie drops the crate as he covers his eyes. The wood splinters as Armie hisses from the stinging light, but his complaints are deafened by the shriek of “What the fuck is that!”  

Armie squints down at the focal point of the beam and sees the bloated shape of Scooter desperately trying to crawl toward the dropped food. Chunks of fur are missing from the mongrels hide and the grey-pink tongue sticks from between the yellow teeth.

“That’s Scooter,” Armie mutters.

The light is redirected at Armie. He spits curses, trying to cover his face from the flashlight.

“Shit. You really are pretty.”

“What?” scowls Armie.

“I said: ‘shit. He really is a fatty’,” Ben explains as the light follows the slowly scooting raccoon. “Sure he isn’t a mutant dog? Because that is not what a raccoon meant to look like.”

Armie shrugs and the flashlight cuts out. He hears Scooter shuffling as he blinks the green and pink sparks from his eyes.

“I’m not saying you should pest control—”

“That raccoon is none of my business,” Armie cuts Ben off. “I just make sure it doesn’t terrorise people when they go to take out the trash.” Armie’s foot catches on the upturned crate, almost tripping him over. Scowling, he picks it up and trudges toward a waste container. Without bothering to open the fence gate, Armie flings the timber over the side.

When Armie looks up to the orange cased clouds, fingers clinging onto the frozen wire of the fence, spots of colour pulse in his eyes and blur the faint pinpricks of stars that peer from the city thrown haze.

“Huh…” Armie whispers. He sways a little on his heels as he leans further back. The wind whistles overhead, rattling the fence.

“You should join me.”

Armie looks back down at the shadow where Ben sits. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I have work to do.” Armie backs away from the containers and walks toward the door.

Ben snorts. “Sitting behind a counter and watching an empty diner is not work.”

“It’s better than being in the cold waiting for your imaginary friends,” spits Armie and opens the door. He takes satisfaction in the way it crashes behind him, slammed by the wind from the flatlands.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The skies were clear when Armie pulled into the Last Order Diner’s parking lot at midnight the next day. The staff came off their evening shift and wished Armie luck, thumping him on the back. The diner was empty and Armie went to the back where he took off his coat, clipped on the nametag and tied the apron around his waist.

Armie swept the floors, took the cutlery into the kitchen to be cleaned and wiped down the tables. The first customer arrived: some middle-aged man in a rumpled suit who only ordered a burger and coffee – drinking refill after refill. He didn’t leave a tip.

About an hour later a young man came into the diner. He was dressed in a heavily worn denim jacket over a sweater with a hood that was pulled over a black baseball cap with a scraped red logo. He smiled at Armie as he sat at the counter and ordered a milkshake.

His quiet voice was hoarse, like he just woken up (it was about two in the morning), and his face was a collection of odd features: a weak chin and a large nose, sweet puppy eyes and polka dot moles. The boy blushed when Armie smiled back. After he finished the drink he asked for fill his travel mug with black coffee (an old thing with scratched mint green paint). He left a bigger tip than necessary.

As Armie cleans the coffee stains from the white porcelain cups he still smiles thinking about how the boy squirmed and turned a shade of red when Armie leaned over to swipe away the pink milkshake puddles off the counter. It gives him a deep sense of satisfaction to know that he can have that effect on people.

Armie puts aside the last cup and dries his hands on the front of his apron. Something knocks against the wall outside the diner. Trashcans clatter and the garbage rustles. Armie looks at his wristwatch (the leather is cracked from water exposure). It’s three in the morning.

There is a stack of folded lawn chairs under the coat hanger beside the backdoor. They were brought some years ago by staff who got tired of sitting on cold concrete during their smoke breaks. The chairs are yellowed and the rips in the fabric stretch under your ass when you sit – creaking to remind you that it doesn’t give a shit where you land.

Armie takes the scarf that hangs over his parka – woven into red tartan fabric that unfolds to the size of a blanket. Phasma dumped it onto him she saw Armie smoking the stub of a cigarette on the steps of a lecture hall at eight in the morning, shaking in his thin jacket. She hasn’t asked for it since.

Slinging the scarf around his shoulders, Armie tucks the excess fabric into his elbows and picks up a lawn chair from the stack. He opens the backdoor and wrestles past it with the legs of the chair.

It’s cold, but at least there is no wind. Armie trudges along the wall in the dark where ranks of emptied trashcans stand. He can see the black lump of Ben’s shadow, back slumped and feet flung out. Armie stops beside him and kicks aside a trashcan to make space for the lawn chair.

Plotting his seat, Armie falls down into the bowl of the old creaking fabric. Ahead, in the space between the waste containers, grasses sway in the soft orange light of the streetlamps. It’s odd to think that if he turns, Armie will be able to see the distant peaks of skyscrapers.

“No raccoon feeding?” Ben grumbles. By the sound of it, he has caught a cold.

“Diet,” replies Armie and holds the scarf tighter around his arms.

“You know.” Ben shifts in his chair, changing the position of his crossed legs. “Back in the late seventies, my uncle swore that he saw bigfoot. Some people say that it was just my dad’s best friend, others say it was—”

Armie blanks out the rest. Mostly, Ben talks about the creatures he has attempted to find such as the Dover Demon and the frogman. It’s more of a one-sided argument when Ben begins to contemplate on the conspiracies of cover-ups while Armie stares up at the sky, trying to recall what the different colours of the stars indicate about their compositions.  

When Ben’s rambling turns toward the mothman and Ben’s attempt to lure out the creature from behind a police station, Armie stands and asks, “Do you want coffee?”

“Out of cash,” Ben says.

Armie shrugs. “On the house.”

Ben squeaks as Armie heads to the door. “Aw you are actually beginning to like me!”

“It’s called charity work,” Armie says as he turns the door handle.

“Alright Pope Francis.” Fabric crinkles and the concrete scrapes. “Fill this up.”

An object is lobbed at Armie and he ducks to catch it. The cold metal slaps into his hands and he feels the handle of a mug. Armie opens the backdoor and steps inside. Yellow light falls over him and the scratched mint green face of the travel mug stares up at Armie from his hands.

Armie leans back over the threshold. The boy who wiped the creamy suds of the milkshake from his lips with the cuff of his jacket grins at him from the deckchair in the dim light. Gloved fingers wiggle in ‘hello’.

Armie grimaces and flips him off.

The diner is empty and hour hand of the clock is breaching onto four. Adjusting the huge blanket scarf on his shoulders, Armie scrubs congealed coffee out of the travel mug and refills it to the brim. He comes back out in to the cold holding two mugs and offers Ben his drink while he sits down in the lawn chair and blows over the rim of his porcelain cup.

“What’s that?”

“White mocha.”

“Didn’t know that was on the menu.”

“It’s not.”

The cup is tugged out of Armie’s hands and he lets it go. He listens to Ben slurp through the thick froth of whipped cream and steamed milk.

Ben smacks his lips. “Have I told you about the Gnome of Girona?”

The cup is handed back to Armie. He takes it and presses the warm porcelain against his stomach, trying to get back some of the heat. “Isn’t that the dead calf with a flaccid appendage on its head?”

Ben is silent for a moment. “That’s…” he mutters, “That’s actually a pretty good way of putting it.”

The cup in Armie’s hands cools while Ben’s rambling begins to dwindle. By five they are both sat in sit silence with their heads tipped up to watch the passing helicopters. Armie has his feet perched on the edge of the chair, knees to his chest and scarf wrapped to his nose. The nametag weighs like a cold reminder on his chest.

Armie gets up when his phone begins to buzz in the pocket of his shirt, making an untimely wakeup call. He excuses himself and tells Ben “goodnight” before quickly correcting himself (“I mean, it’s morning”) and picking up the lawn chair, dragging it through the backdoor.

Customers slowly begin to appear, blearily blinking as they count out their cash. For once, Armie feels sympathy for their exhaustion as he struggles to maintain his coordination while pouring coffee and serving breakfast.

When Armie clocks out at seven (replaced by three owlish staff that flurry into the kitchen), he ducks out of the backdoor to find the space for the deckchair empty. Armie goes to the parking lot with an odd sense of disappointment lodged in his gut.

 

-o-

 

A free Sunday spent studying and holiday shopping in the city. The result is visible the following day when irritation collects under the skin like clumps of sand. Nothing sits right: from how the letters rest on lined paper to the way the bow of the apron presses against Armie’s back.

Dirty cups and plates are slammed onto the tray, rims sticky with spit and sugar. Armie feels the stares pinned on his back from table four. He hasn’t slept in two days and everything has become reduced to the formula of ‘action and consequence’ – periodic, mechanical, necessary. Armie scrubs the cutlery until he flays his fingers and the soap cracks his skin, leaving it raw and peeling.

The bell rings above the door as the last customer leaves. Armie stills over the sink, hands frozen under the cold spray of water.

One… Two… Three… Four… Fi—

Armie slams the water off and marches to the backdoor. Cold air gushes into the diner. Armie steps outside, shoulder squared, teeth jammed together. The door shuts behind him.

Hands in his pockets, Armie storms down the backstreet, footsteps slapping against the concrete. He stops. Counts.

One… Two… Thre—

“Do you smoke?”

Armie’s head snaps up. “What?”

“I said, do you smoke?”

He can’t make out Ben in the dark, but by the sound Armie can tell that he is standing. Armie squints, gritting his teeth. “Quitting.”

Laughter splutters. “What are you, thirty?”

“ _What_?” Anger burns in Hux’s throat like alcohol.

“Only thirty year olds say they are quitting.” Fabric scratches against brick as Ben shrugs. “You know, it’s a thing. They said it for years but they never really d—”

Armie can’t take it anymore. “Will you shut your fucking mouth for  _one goddamn second_!” 

The silence is immediate. All that permeates the quiet of the dark suburbs is the distant howl of the city sirens, a whisper of a passing car and Armie’s punctured breathing.

Armie drops down to his haunches against the wall, hands fisted in his hair. He only partially aware of the cold creeping into his clothes, anger abating it with numbness.

The meagre peace is frayed when boots crunch on the cracked concrete. “Are you PMSing?”

Armie looks up. There is a shadow of Ben’s upper body on the backdrop of the steam pouring from the vents. “Would that really be any of your business?” Armie asks.

“Oh shit. Are you? I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like th—”

“Jesus fucking Christ! Just—” Armie snaps and grunts in frustration when he loses the words. He drops his head into his hands. “Just,” Armie tries again, softer, “be quiet for a moment?”

“Sure.”

A helicopter passes overhead, circles twice and doubles back. A car pulls into the gas station beside the diner (rarely used for anything other than running in to buy a late night snack). Voices come from across the street where the rundown Blockbusters sits squat under the streetlights. A door slams in the suburbs.

“Did the bell ring?” Armie asks eventually.

“No.”

Armie wipes his eyes and slams his palms down over his knees. When he stands, there is an odd unbalanced feeling like he is drunk. “Right,” mutters Armie as he presses a hand against the brick wall to guide himself toward the door.

“Right,” Armie says again when he opens the backdoor into the diner and looks to the dark where Ben is still standing. “You coming inside?”

Ben is like a dog that has been dragged out of the streets when he steps into the diner, rough around the edges and bundled like he is prepared for a night on the concrete. He looks at the diner lights from under his cap with hunger as he clutches the strap of his bag.

“Promise more coffee?” Ben asks.

Armie shrugs. “Fine.”

The camera bag is shoved under the table of a red vinyl couch booth to the right of the diner and Ben begins to haul the dirty cutlery that Armie had abandoned on the tables to the kitchen. He offers to clean the dishes but now that Armie had a glance at those hands without the tattered grey (or maybe black) gloves, he is scared to think what they could do to porcelain cups.

When Armie comes back from the kitchen, Ben is sleeping at the table. One arm pillows his head, hidden by the flopped forward hood of his jacket and askew baseball cap. He doesn’t even twitch when Armie puts on music (‘Stand By Me’, ‘Rich Girl’, and such. It’s an odd blend that he wouldn’t be caught dead justifying).

Armie makes two coffees with too much whipped cream and licks the overflowing froth from the side of his cup as he sits down in front of Ben. The cups clack on the white plastic of the table and Ben jerks up. The cap and hood fall to show an outgrown haircut of his black mop. Ben’s ears are lined with piercings.

“Done with your sasquatches?” Armie pushes one of the cups toward Ben.

“I was lookin’ for the goatman actually.” Ben picks up the cup between his palms and presses his lips to the rim, not quite drinking the coffee. The wide berth of his hunched shoulders casts a shadow from the overhead lights, practically hiding him.

“The what?” Compared to Ben’s, Armie’s hands look almost dainty around the cup though there is hardly a difference; it’s the days’ worth of dust caked underneath Ben’s nails and the mud on his scraped knuckles and callouses. Armie’s look like the porcelain that he holds (it’s the constant scrubbing that doesn’t permit him from building rugged skin, like Ben’s).

Ben licks the cream off lips. “The goatman. You know, with the pig’s nose, donkey tail and goat legs. Kinda looks like he just climbed out of a chimney and decided to go to a penthouse party.” He smirks when Armie has nothing to reply with. The cocky behaviour must just be an act because he can’t stop tugging at the large rings that line his ears. “Nothing compared to Scooter, though,” Ben adds.

Armie wonders if the raccoon has been fed. He should text Phasma; she has the evening shifts but their days never coincide.

“I could say that the raccoon could pass for something liminal.” Ben is fumbling for a phone in a scratched-up case. The screen is cracked with spider web marks that reach from the top left corner. “Just blur it up a bit, add a black and white filter and the internet will eat it up without a second thought.” The phone is passed to Armie’s hands.

Like a fat, oily sausage that had been rolled around on the floor and collected dust and debris, Scooter lies in the middle of an explosion of garbage. The raccoon’s eyes flash back green at the phone, pinpricks of yellow teeth bared. Just at the edge of the image Armie can see the scuffed toe of Ben’s right boot.

A thumb swipe and another image of the ugly motherfucker that passes for a raccoon, turning from the camera, reaching an oddly misshaped black paw across the concrete. Armie swipes again. Ben must have tried to follow the creature because the next shot is of the raccoon from overhead, desperately trying to scoot away as Ben stands behind it.

Armie giggles. He covers his mouth with the flat of his clammy palm, nails digging into his cheek. It feels like something has broken inside him as laughter bursts from Armie’s mouth. He isn’t even sure why he is laughing. Maybe it’s the stupidity of this fucking animal, rolling in trash, or maybe it’s the way Ben stalked it like some wildlife rarity. Or maybe it’s the whole situation.

The phone drops out of Armie’s hands onto the table. He holds his face in his hands as the laughter that comes from his belly shakes his entire body. Tears are in Armie’s eyes and he just can’t fucking stop giggling.

A flash bursts across the table. Armie looks up and he is met by the sight of a lens fixed on him. The shutter clicks again and like a small supernova the flash blinds Armie. Sparks pulse in his eyes like stardust.

“Found it,” says Ben nonchalantly as he looks down at the viewfinder of his DSLR – scuffed and cracked like the rest of him.

Armie can’t find it in himself to be angry; he is still breathless from laughing. “Found what?”

“The cryptid.” Ben tilts the camera for Armie to see a picture of himself. It’s not even in focus, kinda smudged from when he moved to wipe his eyes. His face is all puffy and blotchy from laughing.

“Fuck you.” Armie kicks Ben’s shin, making him recoil in his seat.

“Hey, don’t!” Ben cautions but Armie is already aiming for his knees. Ben dodges most of the kicks, jumping up on the red vinyl couch, and lands a few hits himself that force Armie to take cover by swinging his legs onto the seat. 

“You giving in?” demands Ben as he manages to jab Armie’s ass with the toes of his boots.

“Never!” And with that Armie picks up a pop-up menu and flings it across the table at Ben. It’s dodged but a bottle of mustard is on its way to clip Ben on his forehead.

Armie reaches for the ketchup bottle when Ben’s feet slap on the floor. Ben leans over the table and Armie sits on his haunches on the seat of the couch, laughing as he scrambles to get out of Ben’s reach. Objects roll onto the floor when Ben puts a knee on the table and leans across it to grab Armie by the front of his shirt.

“Oh no no no, don’t—!” Armie shrieks with laughter when he is yanked forward. The giggles are punched out of him when his teeth clatter against Ben’s.

Armie can’t stop smiling even as he tilts his head, taking Ben’s chin to ease the angle of their kiss. He can tell this is probably only Ben’s second or third time doing this from the way he freezes up when Armie responds by leaning in to bite at his bottom lip. It’s sweet, a little innocent. It makes Armie smile even more.

Frustrated by his awkwardness, Ben whines and takes Armie’s jaw into his hands – large, rough, but gentle – and kisses his cheeks, nose, forehead, up toward his hairline. He lets Ben roughen his hair and pull at it as he continues to nuzzle Armie like some large dog looking for affection. Somehow, Armie finds himself leaning after the touch.

The buzzing in Armie’s pocket steals his attention. He pulls back from Ben’s hands to look at his phone that is blaring its 5am wakeup call.

“I should get going,” Ben says. Armie looks up to see that Ben is pulling his own phone across the table, licking his red lips.

The night clings like ink to the windows and Armie can see the orange spotlights of the streetlamps beaming over the Blockbusters parking lot. For once, he doesn’t want the night to be over.

“Come here,” Armie says as he stands and leans over the table. With knuckles under Ben’s chin, Armie kisses him.

For a moment, Ben forgets what he was going to do and his hands fall slack on the table. But then he says, “I really should go.”

With his camera shoved back into his bag and the hood of his jacket pulled over his baseball cap, Ben leaves the light of the diner. The bell rings a second time when Armie follows him out into the cold.

A pickup truck is parked on the strip of ground between the gas station and the diner, clashed in the ambience of the orange and white street lights. Ben opens the passenger door and throws the camera bag inside. The truck shakes when the door closes.

“Coming back to look for the goatman tomorrow?”

Ben turns and Armie steps in front of him, pinning Ben against the side of the truck with a palm on his chest.

Ben grins. “No, I think I found my cryptid.”

“Oh yeah?” Armie lifts up his chin and stares up at Ben curiously.

“Yeah. Found this odd creature that only gets about in the dark. Took a long time to see it but it was definitely worth it. It’s dependant on caffeine, gets angry a lot, and never puts on a jacket from the cold.” Ben takes the unzipped sides of his waterproof coat and tucks them around Armie, pulling him against Ben’s chest. Their foreheads thunk together.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Armie says. He is smiling again; he can’t help it.

“You were shivering.” Ben tugs the coat tighter around Armie who settles his hands on Ben’s waist, slipping them down toward his back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure.” Armie doesn’t understand what allows him to do this: typically, casual contact irritates him, makes Armie recoil, but somehow he doesn’t hesitate to kiss Ben on the jaw. There is a tug of a smile and the rough beginning of a stubble scratches Armie’s lips.

The shy boy blushes, all bashful like it’s the first date peck on the cheek. Armie adjust the hood of Ben’s jacket, running his fingers down to the loops of the strings. Armie coils them around his fingers while Ben continues to struggle to keep his composure. Then, Armie yanks the strings sharply and the hood cinches on Ben’s face, leaving only his nose and the front of his cap poking out.

Armie ducks out of the warmth of Ben’s coat before he can grab Armie and get revenge. Fingers grasp the ties of Armie’s apron, but he yanks free and runs out of reach, laughing when, half blind, Ben tries to stumble after him.

“Go hunt your sasquatches, loser!” Armie shouts back at Ben who has only just managed to wrestle out of his hood.

Armie doesn’t stop smiling, even when he is stood in front of the counter of the empty diner. There is a feeling inside his gut that fizzles and pops, jumping like a firecracker, refusing to settle even when his cheeks begin to hurt.

A car horn blares and a pickup truck pulls onto the road, flashing the headlamps under the cracked Blockbusters sign.

 

 

 


	3. Bonus Chapter: Come On Over, Armie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞](https://open.spotify.com/user/blessedbytheash/playlist/0COKAQ6nc9gStdOxlyln1z) [(ღ˘⌣˘ღ)](https://open.spotify.com/user/leeegolas/playlist/7fOmNOO9gBBc2j0PfF5g7d)
> 
> just a quick warning: explicit PIV sex. ok enjoy

The bedroom door opens, allowing a single crack of light inside. A woman’s figure appears through the gap.

“Psst!” she hisses.

Silence.

“Psst! Armie!”

The covers shift on the bed. Armie’s bruised eyes peer out from the twisted duvet. “Mm—?” he manages to grunt.

“You know what day it is?”

Armie looks to the side, thinking a moment. “Mm?” he asks, looking back to the door.

“It’s Christmas eve, motherfucker!” the invader yells and the door slams shut.

Armie can hear Phasma charging down the corridor, yelling into the other rooms. He doesn’t bother getting up to telling her to keep it down ( after all, it’s only midday).

The last time Armie tried to tell Phasma to calm down she was part way through decorating the Christmas tree (white and chrome) and she dropped the ornaments to snap off her bra from under her t-shirt and fling it at Armie from across the room. When it fell into his coffee, Armie carefully extracted the bra and continued to drink.

With a groan, Armie curls back under the covers.

 

-o-

 

The neon faces of Christmas decorations flash in the black windows. Music is a steady presence buzzing with the clatter of cups and scratching of forks on plates. Waiters dressed in cheap costumes over their uniforms dip from table to table, bringing overloaded trays to booths.

Hours click by heading toward midnight and the crowds dissipate. Staff put on their coats and head to their cars in the light of the Last Order Diner.

It’s two in the morning. The diner feels anything but empty.

Bells jingle from behind the counter as Armie cleans the coffee stains off its surface. Tinsel itches his necks when he turns to check if the coffee is done and ready to fill the scratched mint green travel mug.

Shuffling comes from the booths and Armie bites down on his smile as he picks up a coffee pot and pops the travel mug’s lid. It becomes a struggle not to laugh when he hears the slurred singing.

"Well, my body has been a mess and I've missed your ginger hair and the way you like to dress—s." Hiccup. "Shit. What was the— Oh yeah. Won't you c'me on over, stop makin' a fool outta me—e.” Hiccup. “Why dontcha c'me on over, Armie—e! Dun-nunun-dun-dun. Did you have to pay my bail, did ya really think I was gonna— Is that coffee?"

Armie sets down the coffee pot and turns as he reseals the cap of the mug. In the booth in front of the counter, Ben is lying across a seat, legs thrown out and arms behind his head. One eye is peering out from under the jacket hood, watching the mug hawkishly. (Ben has only had one beer tonight but he is acting like it was more.)

“Uh-huh.” Bells jingle on Armie’s apron as he walks out from behind the counter. The garish tinsel around his shoulders and waist glints at him in the reflections of the windows. “No sugar or cream,” Armie says. “As bitter as your expectations of this festive season.”

“You are only wearing that shit because you are a sell-out.” Ben sits up, careful to keep his hood up. Armie got a hint of what’s underneath when they met behind the diner and Armie reached inside Ben's hood to pull him closer by his hair when they kissed. But he struggled to get a handful because the hair had been buzzed away in strips around Ben’s ears.

“If it gets me money, I don’t complain.”

Ben yawns as he takes the mug, enveloping the scratched mint green paint in his fingers. It takes him a moment to coordinate the rim toward his face.

“You tired?”

Ben’s head jerks up sharply. “What makes you sa—” He is broken off by a yawn that stretches his jaw painfully.

Armie grins. “You walked here, didn’t you?”

“No I didn’t.” Ben goes to casually lean against the table but misses it by a stretch. He continues to tip until he realises the miscalculation and flails to avoid dropping his mug.

Armie snorts, fiddling with the tinsel on his waist. The shift will be over in an hour and he is in a good mood, so he says, “You could stay over at my apartment.”

“ _What_?” The coffee sloshes for a second time, this time spilling over Ben’s lap. He hisses, “Fuckin’—”

“As long as you don’t mind the roommates.”

“—No, no, no.” Pretending he wasn’t cursing in pain seconds ago, Ben takes a sip from his mug and ignores the coffee dripping from his jeans.

 

“No, I won't shed a tear, just as long as you stand,” Ben sings past his tinsel moustache, “stand by me—!” He begins clicking his fingers, ducking from side to side in the car seat. “And darlin’, and darlin’—”

“If you really aren’t tired, you can get out and walk.”

Ben’s jaw clicks and the tinsel drops into his lap.

Everything is black and brown under the city lights that drape over the car as Armie turns off the main road. There are drunk whoops as students crawl through the dormitory parking lot. Some wave at Armie and stumble when he honks at them to get out of the fucking way.

Ben drapes the tinsel around his neck like a feather boa when he shuts the car door, the clunky camera bag slung over a shoulder. There is frost on the tarmac and it crunches under Armie’s heels as he walks, watching the ice crystals glitter under the streetlights over the top of his scarf.

Hands slap over Armie’s shoulders and start to tap out a rhythm when he stops in front of an apartment lobby lit by a white light. Armie unlocks the door and lets Ben go through first before relocking it behind them.

“Promise I won’t have to do the walk of shame in the morning?” Ben asks as the lights click on over the staircase.

“The only walk you will do is to the kitchen to make me coffee.”

Two floors up, Armie shrugs his coat off and slings it on the landing’s banister, throwing his scarf over the top. There are two doors at either ends of the corridor and Armie reaches for the one on the right. The door cracks open and low blue light shimmers inside.

“Phas?” Armie calls out. “Mitaka? Anyone?” He turns back to Ben who squints with a scrunched up tinsel moustache on top of his pouted lips. “Seems like everyone is out.”

Just as Armie goes to push Ben upstairs, a crash comes from behind the door.

“Armie? Is that you?”

Further crashes follow before Armie opens the door and leans inside with Ben right behind him

The living room and kitchen are compressed into one space divided by two couches back to back. The white Christmas tree winks with blue lights, hiding a stash of packages underneath its low plastic branches. In the nook of the kitchen area, the fridge door is open throwing a ray of white light toward the ceiling.

Phasma is stood behind the fridge door, dressed in a pyjama t-shirt and shorts while holding a champagne bottle. There is smudged silver pigment around her eyes and dark purple smears of lipstick on her cracked lips.

“Armie!” Phasma shouts, slamming the fridge shut. She goes to stumble toward Armie but trips over a couch. Undeterred, Phasma pushes back onto her feet and shouts, “You should’ve came with us! There was a tree on fire, someone brought contraband, the police arrived and—”

“I had work, Phas,” Armie interrupts.

Phasma is laughing as she tips on a couch. Tearing at the champagne’s cork, she says, “Standing behind a counter and staring at a shutdown Blockbusters is _not_ work, buddy.”  

“That’s what I told him!” Ben shouts behind Armie.

Phasma sobers and grips the bottle like a bat. “Who is that?” she demands.

Ben peeks out from behind the door as Armie points with his thumb and says, “Phasma, Ben. Ben, Phasma.” Then he turns and shoves Ben out of the room, telling him, “Go upstairs and wait for me on the landing.”

Phasma giggles drunkenly as Ben darts upstairs. “Is that your boyfriend?” she asks.

Armie frowns at her. “No, that’s my pastor and we are going to go into my room and discuss sermons _all night long_.”

There is a snort as Phasma finally yanks out the cork. Froth flows everywhere. “Giddy up, General!” Phasma salutes Armie with the champagne that pours all over the floor.

Armie groans and leaves the room.

On the third-floor landing, Ben is draped over the banister, snoring into the third chin he has developed. Carefully, Armie approaches from behind and pries off Ben’s hood. Leaning inches from Ben’s ear, he says, “Have your homework ready, I will be collecting it at the door.”

Ben jerks up, almost smashing his skull into Armie’s face. “Wha—?” he stammers. “I didn’t—I-I didn’t—!” Ben turns, trips over his feet and falls on the banister. Armie catches him by the arm before manages to tip over the side.

“Just kidding, you idiot,” Armie says and pulls a dazed Ben toward his bedroom door. “Don’t wake everyone up.”

The window is orange from streetlights that stand over the thin strip of a garden under the dormitory block with empty flowerbeds and bare trees. Empty glasses stand on the window sill with stains on their rims. Armie switches on the desk lamp as Ben drops his bag beside the door.

“Is being an asshole a housemate requirement in this place?” Ben grumbles, reluctantly tugging off his coat and jacket.

“No, it’s just a lucky coincidence when great minds come together.” Armie is digging through his draws to find pyjamas; he doesn’t intend on doing anything besides sleep just because Phasma had presumed.

“Great assholes more like.”

Armie twists his pyjama top into a rope and whacks Ben’s ass with it as he walks past. “Go and get yourself cleaned before you get in bed.”

With Ben in tow, Armies go to the bathroom where he shoves his pyjamas onto the exposed hot water pipes and starts to brush his teeth while Ben scrapes the soap bar over his hands. They nudge each for space and Ben flicks soapy water at Armie who tries to wipe his toothbrush on Ben’s flannel.

“So who was the hairstyle inspired by? A bowl?”

“What—? No, it’s not a bowlcut. Look, it’s not shaved at the back.” Ben turns to show where his hair tapers toward the nape.

The water has been running cold and Armie’s fingers are frozen. He takes the opportunity to shove a hand past the waistband of Ben’s jeans and grab his ass. “Perhaps you could trim somewhere else too,” he says around his toothbrush as Ben squeals curses.

Ben leaves the bathroom while Armie changes. Heading to his room Armie switches off the corridor lights, barely blinking sleep away.

“Psst.”

Armie turns and sees that Phasma’s door is open. She is stood there, looking worse for wear, platinum hair stuck up haphazardly.

“You alright?” Armie asks, hushed.

“Yeah.” Phasma nods. “Listen, if anything happens and you need to kick him out, I’ll have the bat ready. I’ll wake up Mitaka too.”

Armie smiles. “Thanks. I’m sure you won’t need to.”

“Just in case.” Phasma salutes him and closes the door.

Eventually, Armie manages to get back to his bedroom. The desk lamp is still on and the bed sheets have been rumpled by Ben who has crawled underneath them, leaving behind a trail of his shoes, jeans and flannel.

“Piece of shit,” mutters Armie and dumps his clothes on top of Ben’s. Walking to the other side of the bed, Armie throws aside the covers and flops onto the mattress.

Tucking himself under the sheets, Armie opens his eyes and looks at the desk lamp. It’s still on. But it’s too far to reach. “Fuck it.” Armie falls asleep.

 

_05:01am_

Will Armie ever remember to change his alarm? Probably not.

He is trying to swipe across the screen to turn his phone of when a hand slaps across his bicep.

“Hm—?” Armie turns.

“Why are you leavin’?” Ben doesn’t even have his eyes open under his mottled hair. He keeps tugging at Armie’s t-shirt like he is trying to keep him from going.

“What?” Armie mutters, finally managing to switch off the alarm.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh.” Ben wiggles toward Armie. “Good.” There is a leg pushed between Armie’s and a hand on his back, broad and warm.

“Go to sleep.”

Ben doesn’t reply; he is already snoring. Armie slides the phone back onto the desk and pulls up the covers.

Cars are passing somewhere on the other side of the building. Someone is already up and the neighbouring lobby door shuts. Armie can’t sleep.

The streetlights peek into the third floor, catching on the frost that stretches like lace over the window. Armie follows the patterns, tracing the ends of the swirls as he tries not to think about Ben’s hand on the small of his back.

Armie looks over his shoulder where Ben is lying in his shadow, snoring into the pillow. He can feel Ben’s leg push further between his thighs as he tries to curl in on himself. It’s not helping that Armie has been wound up all day and Ben is right there behind him.

Armie can’t fucking sleep. He has accepted that. He should probably get up and deal with his problem, but that would bother Ben and it’s not fair on him; he needs sleep.

Armie needs to do something.

He decides to deal with the guilt later as he slowly pushes his hand down his stomach and past the waistband of his pyjama pants. As he presses his hand over the crotch of his underwear, Armie considers that if he had a dick, discretion would be completely out of the window.

Slowly, trying to keep his breathing even, Armie grinds his fingers over the groin of his underwear. He rubs and twists the fabric as his thighs begin to tremble from the struggle to not yank his boxers down and just shove his hand between his thighs.

Armie freezes when he feels Ben shuffle forward until his hips touch Armie’s ass. In the same moment, Armie's finger catch this clit through his underwear and he groans, melting into the mattress. Practically sobbing, Armie digs his fingers in, needing more friction but knowing that Ben could wake up.

Armie feels the hand on his back curl into a fist and draw knuckles against the bumps of his spine.

“You okay?” Ben whispers. His voice his hoarse with sleep, warm and hazy like the rest of him.

“Mhm.” Armie tries to discreetly pull his hand out of his pants.

Fingers wraps around Armie’s wrist, stopping him from pulling it out. “You sure? Nothing I can help with?” 

Armie only moans, opening his legs when Ben pushes his thigh toward Armie’s groin, coaxing his hand back down.

Suddenly, Armie goes rigid. “Wait, wait, stop—” he gasps.

Ben halts instantly. “Did I—Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s not that, it’s just—” Armie pauses, tapping his fingers on the knuckles of Ben’s hand that is still wrapped around his wrist. “Do you know that I’m transgender?”

Armie feels Ben relax a little behind him. “No? But I do now.”

Armie expects Ben to continue but he says nothing. “No comments? Questions?”

“Ehh… You still want this?”

“’Course.”

The hand on Armie’s wrist untangles and pushes past his belly into his pyjama pants. “Will you tell me if I do something wrong?”

“Mhm.” Armie covers Ben’s hand with his own. “Have you done this before?”

“Sorta? I don’t remember much. There was a lot of alcohol.”

“Oh. Then I’m gonna have to show you.”

Taking Ben’s hand, Armie pushes it into his underwear, sighing shakily at the feeling of a warm, unfamiliar touch. He guides Ben’s middle and forefinger across his groin, pressing down when he reaches the outer labia. Gently, he pushes Ben’s fingers inside.

Armie smirks when he feels Ben press his forehead against his neck and moan. Mirroring his fingers on Ben’s, he guides him to the hood of his clit – already wet from being on the edge for so long.

“You feel that?”

“Uh-huh.” Ben sounds dazed out of his mind.

“This is what you do.”

Slowly, Armie starts to rub Ben’s fingers over his clit, back and forth before circling and grinding down. Armie gasps, squeezing his eyes shut when he feels the callouses of Ben’s fingers rub against the fragile skin of his cunt.

Looking over his shoulder, Armie grins when he sees Ben watch him with neediness in the low light. Ben bites his lip and pushes his thigh up against Armie’s groin where both of their hands are pressed.

“You think you got it?” Armie asks with a laugh.

“Maybe just,” murmurs Ben.

Setting him in rhythm, Armie slips his hand away and rests it on Ben’s forearm. With slow, sleepy movements, Ben rocks Armie on his thigh as he plays with his wet cunt: rubbing the clit with the pads of his fingers, covering it whole with his hand before pushing his fingers further, dipping them inside.

“Is that alright?” Ben asks.

“Mhmm.” Armie grinds back against Ben’s hand, enjoying how it manages to cover him and how rough Ben’s knuckles are against his inner thighs. Reaching back, Armie grasps Ben’s hip and slots their bodies together when he feels a firmness press against his ass.

Armie looks at Ben, smirking. “Anything I can help you with?”

“No, it’s fine,” Ben mutters, but nudges Armie’s ass when the grind of his hand between Armie’s thighs pins him against Ben.

“Why not? It seems like a bit of a bother.” Hux reaches between him and Ben, laughing when Ben whimpers from the hand on his cock. “Sure feels like a lovely thing to have inside.”

Ben pants, unable to control himself as he fucks into Armie’s hand while continuing to clutch Armie and massage him in tandem with the grinds of his own hips.

“That decides it,” Armie says and throws aside the covers. “Hands off,” he tells Ben and yanks away his arm.

“Wha—” Ben’s mouth clicks shut when Armie stands from the bed and yanks down his pants and underwear, kicking them aside.

Sitting down on his haunches, Armie opens the bottom draw of his desk. Shoving aside folders and lose paper, he pulls out a box of condoms and rips one from the strip of packets. Armie slams the draw shut and kneels back on the bed where Ben is staring at him with wide eyes.

“Well, come on,” says Armie and laughs when Ben scrambles to shake off his underwear.

Armie taps the condom packet against his lips, smiling, when he sees that, even half-hard, Ben’s dick is lovely and thick. He pushes Ben onto the mattress and laughs when Ben yelps.

Crowding over Ben, Armie kisses him without holding back, grinning into the licks and bites as he takes hold of Ben’s cock and begins to stroke him. Ben whimpers when Armie squeezes and eases his hand up to run his thumb over the flush head. It doesn’t take long for Ben to get hard, and then, Armie is straddling him. There are hands on Armie’s hips, pawing at his thighs and dipping in between to stroke him in turn.

When Armie leans back to open the condom packet, Ben asks, “Can you get off from, like, you know, actual fucking.”

“I have no idea what you mean by ‘actual fucking’.” Armie takes Ben’s cock and starts to roll on the condom. Ben winces from the cool, slippery latex. “But if you are asking I can get off by just having a dick inside me. Then no.” He holds himself over Ben’s hips and begins to push his cock inside. “But I love the feeling of it.”

Ben’s feet scramble on the sheets when Armie rocks down onto him until their hips meet. Ben dissolves into a puddle of moans, smiling stupidly behind his hands when Armie lifts up on his knees and grinds in slow circles.

“You like that?” Armie laughs.

“Of course I fuckin’ do.” Ben too is laughing between his gasps when Armie takes his cock with every roll of his hips. “Come here,” Ben says and pulls Armie down on top to kiss him wetly as Ben fucks into his body.

With one hand on the mattress, Armie pushes the other down to rub over his clit in tandem with Ben’s thrusts as they kiss.

“That’s it,” Armie murmurs when he feels Ben grasp his ass, spreading his fingers wide and digging his nails in. “Come on, you can go faster.” His thighs slip apart when his ass is spread open and the thrusts come harsher, shaking Armie as he does his best to hold on.

Armie feels the tremors begin in his thighs, spasming his muscles as the grinds of his fingers become rougher. Ben doesn’t seem to know whether he wants to bite or kiss him, hold his ass or pull him toward his chest. So instead, his hands clutch Armie all over, keeping him close.

Armie falls onto Ben’s chest, sobbing when he cants his hips and feels the sweet grind of Ben’s cock inside him. He pushes his ass down and slows the movements of his fingers, dragging them out until the shakes in his thighs steal control.

“Come on, Ben, come on! I’m not gonna—” Armie is silenced when Ben grabs him by the back of his neck and kisses him in the same moment as he forces his hips up and begins to come inside Armie.

Whimpering into the askew kiss, Armie feels his body tense as he urges himself to move. Then, he is trembling as his blood rushes in pulses. Armie feels himself come, pleasure falling over him like the buzz of static. He pants against Ben’s collarbone, hands falling slack.

After a few moments, Armie tries to get up but the hand on his neck is holding him steady. “I need to move,” he mumbles.

Slowly, Ben’s sweaty hands let go and Armie rolls off with faint whimpers. There is an unpleasant lukewarm feeling collecting in his stomach as the initial buzz wears off and Armie knows that it might make him vomit.

Lying on his side, hands fisted in his t-shirt, Armie listens to the sheets rustle and the wet slap of the used condom as it’s tied off and thrown somewhere in the general direction of the waste basket.

“You okay?” Ben asks hoarsely.

“I will be. Just give me a moment.”

The desk lamp finally clicks off and the sheets are pulled from the foot of the bed. There is a pause of silence.

“Can I touch you?”

Armie considers. “Mhm.”

Ben doesn’t crowd around him, choosing to only pull the covers over them both and settles at Armie’s back, head against his shoulders and legs touching his.

Warmth builds under the sheets as Armie follows the lead of Ben’s slow, steady breathing (In… Out… In… Out…). He turns and reaches out in the dark. Ben’s hair is in sweaty clumps and his ears burn when Armie strokes the shaved sides with his thumbs.

“Come here,” murmurs Armie and pulls Ben’s head against his chest.

One… Two… Three…

 

_10:05am_

Even behind his eyelids Armie feels daylight burn his retinas. He should’ve closed the curtains before going to bed, but reason was on vacation apparently.

Keeping the sheets drawn to his chin, Armie turns onto his back. He can hear the tap running downstairs in the kitchen. Somewhere along the corridor someone is also turning in their bed, trying to sleep off their hangover.

“Why is there a Santa head hanging from a tree?”

It takes effort for Armie to open his eyes and look against the grey morning light. He sees Ben’s shadow standing in front of the window. He is wearing his boxers and flannel shirt that hangs unbuttoned.

“Treats for squirrels,” Armie mutters into the sheets. Mitaka had insisted on leaving special Christmas treats for the squirrels (a collection of nuts and dried fruit), but there was nothing to put the food into. Taking the ugliest Christmas tree ornament which happened to be a plastic Santa head, Armie carved two holes into either side and used it as a feeder. Hence the ominous tree decoration outside the apartment block.

“Good use for decapitated heads,” Ben says matter-of-factly.

Armie pushes aside the covers and stretches his arms overhead, groaning as he touches the wall with his fingertips. He is still wearing the t-shirt that is tacky from dry sweat and everything is sore – but in a good way.

Ben leans against the windowsill, crossing one bare foot behind the other. Armie looks away. His desk is covered in tinsel and the shelves of textbooks have Christmas lights (not his doing) that he has yet to switch on. There is a gift bag, stuffed with flimsy red paper and glitter. Second guesses kept Armie from giving it to Ben.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Armie pushes himself up and reaches out a hand. “Come ‘ere.”

Ben turns. His chest is bare and Armie can’t help but lick his lips. “What?” Ben asks.

“Come here.” Armie gestures again. He can figure how pathetic he must look, sex rumpled and sleep worn with bruises under his eyes.

Ben walks toward the bed and takes Armie’s hand into his own, warm from sleep. Armie spins Ben and take him by the waist, pulling him back onto his lap. Ben lands with a grunt. His weight is solid and warm, but soft under Armie’s hands when he wraps his arms around Ben’s hips.

Armie drops his chin on Ben’s shoulder. “It’s Christmas day,” he mutters.

“Mhm.”

Armie turns and sighs into the soft flannel of Ben’s shirt collar. “Merry Christmas.”

Hands cover his own. “Right back at you, you sap.” Armie feels a kiss against his hair.

 

 

 


	4. Bonus Chapter 2: Met a Cryptid Hunter as Cute as Can Be

The alarm goes off at eleven. (Finally, someone remembered to change it from five am.) Ben finds the phone under the lumped pillow and swipes thumbs at the screen until he accidentally finds the alarm button. He shoves it under the pillow and scoots back across the bare mattress to where Armie is curled up like a dozing possum.

The covers have been shoved down to the floor and the mangled pillows are clawing to stay on. The window is wide open, but even that won’t get rid of the humidity that lies thick inside the room like a wool rug. There are plastic cups stacked by the overfilled waste basket that hides glass bottles with crumpled printer paper. Ben watches the fan on the floor turns and shift the paper edges, ruffling peacock tail of post-it notes.

It took him until eight in the morning to fall asleep, but then it got too warm and the fabric of his t-shirt and boxers would keep sticking to his skin and chafing. Ben gave up the t-shirt and lies in just his underwear on his back with his arms crossed and legs perfectly straight to avoid touching anything unnecessarily. 

Armie passed out as soon as he curled up on the mattress with his arms and legs tucked up against his chest, dressed in a pyjama t-shirt and flannel pants. He is still asleep, snoring on the pillow with his hair matted over his eyes. Ben can see his chipped teeth peek, a little crooked from chewing on pens and forks.

He watches Armie snore from across the bed, curious how he is not bothered by the sweat staining his armpits and chest. Ben reaches a clammy hand to Armie’s chin and presses up with his fingertips until his jaw clicks shut. He pulls back and Armie’s mouth drops open again. A long, deep snore rolls out of his throat.

Ben squints at Armie and crosses his arms.

Downstairs, someone is slamming the door into the common room and the TV is being switched on. Ben can hear the microwave bleeping through its final seconds before it’s opened.

He should get up if he can’t sleep, but instead Ben reaches across again and pushes his hand through Armie’s sweaty hair, watching his limp head tilt back and the swallowing gulps pass through his throat. Ben wants to lean in and kiss Armie on the cheek, but he thinks he will vomit from the taste in his own mouth.

Ben strokes the side of Armie’s neck and the bit of his shoulder that peers out from under the soft t-shirt. His skin is whiter there, if that’s even possible, from the collars of the tightly buttoned shirts he wears for work and class out of habit.

Armie droops forward onto his chest and snorts against the pillow, subconsciously shifting his hips which forces his pyjama pants down. Though Ben would enjoy seeing the return of the freckled ass, he decides to be courteous pulls up the waistband.

Armie doesn’t seem to consider waking up. So, after half an hour of marinating in his own stale breath and sweat, Ben crawls down the bed on his hands and knees and fishes up his clothes from the floor.

It feels disgusting to pull on the shorts and the t-shirt, even though it’s barely anything. Ben forgoes the socks and shoes and waddles out of the room, cringing at the fabric rubbing on his skin.

The bedrooms are empty as the house has been abandoned for the library; Ben listened through the first daybreak hours as people struggled in the kitchen before rushing out through the front door with their heavy bags slamming on the bannisters.

The air is cooler downstairs since the hot air rose to the top floor. Ben is thinking of taking a nap on the living room couches since Armie won’t mind because he always complains about Ben’s long legs getting in the way of him stretching out properly.

His plan stumbles when he finds Phasma at the kitchenette in the corner of the common room. She has her back to Ben, but he knows she has already clocked him and he can’t back out without getting noticed. Ben tries to be nonchalant as he shuffles over to the counters and opens a cupboard for a box of cornflakes. He smells brewing coffee from Phasma’s end of the counter, but doesn’t look up as he pulls out a bowl and spoon.

“Excus’me,” Ben mutters as he edges toward the refrigerator.

Phasma only grunts and mugs clatter on the plywood counter.

The milk slips in Ben’s hands as he pours it and a ‘sorry’ directed at Phasma is almost on his tongue even though she has said nothing and kept her attention on the mugs she has been sullenly stirring ever since Ben came in. Ben quickly shoves the milk back inside the refrigerator and grabs the overfilled bowl of cereal.

He makes two steps before a shuffle comes from Phasma and she stops him with, “Ben.”

His feet squeak on the lino and milk sloshes over the rim of the bowl. Ben scrunches up his toes in the cold puddle and mutters, “Yeah?”

“Pass this over to your boyfriend?”

Ben turns around and grabs the coffee mug Phasma is holding out to him like a bomb trigger. But she doesn’t let go and Ben panics that he misunderstood something.

Phasma frowns. “Look… I’m…” she starts and then breaks off, letting go of the mug. She crosses her arms across her tatty college brand t-shirt. “I’m not the best at relationships, or advice, but—”

Ben’s jaw is cinched together so tightly he can hear his teeth try to give up the battle and snap.

“You know like it’s summer already.” Even Phasma looks uncomfortable, which is confusing and terrifying. “Which means there are finals,” she tells Ben. “Then there is graduation.”

Ben nods, briefly thinking about soggy cornflakes and cold coffee.

“Armitage is in his final year,” Phasma tells Ben, like he is meant to know what she is going on about. “He will be gone after summer. Back home. Which means you won’t be able to see him at the diner every night.”

“Right.” The coffee mug is burning Ben’s knuckles and the bowl weighs a tonne in his other hand.

“You won’t get to stay over whenever you both feel like it.” Phasma looks tired, and it can’t just be the finals. “You understand me?”

Ben nods as his elbows creak. “Yeah, yeah. Cool. It’s cool.”

“No, this isn’t ‘ _cool_ ’.”

“No, it’s cool it’s cool.” Ben shrugs. “It’s totally cool. It’s fine.” He starts to back away when he hears the floorboards moan from the level above. “Gotta go, yeah? You stay cool.”

Ben reverses out of the room before Phasma manages another word. He makes the stairs two at a time, ignoring the sloshing milk and coffee as he clears the distance.

Armie is sleeping again when Ben pushes back into the room, sucking the spilled coffee off his hand. Armie has flopped onto his back and both of his forearms are covering his face while his legs are flung out to the corners of the bed. There is just the edge for Ben to sit down, but at least the snoring stopped.

Putting the mug on the table beside the bed, Ben sits on the edge of the mattress and slurps down the soggy cornflakes.

The springs creak like sore bones as Armie tips sideways behind Ben. Clammy, cold fingers worm into the hem of Ben’s t-shirt and pull.

“No eating in bed,” Armie mutters against the mattress. His fingers keep pulling until Ben is straining to keep upright.

Chewing on the cornflakes, Ben turns around and glares at Armie. “So you’re the only one who is allowed to eat in bed?”

It takes a moment for Armie to catch up on the words and when he does he yanks on Ben’s t-shirt again, almost tipping him with the bowl in his lap.

“That doesn’t count,” Armie tells him. He lets go of Ben’s collar when he notices the mug on the bed side table.

They sit side by side on the mattress, slurping down their respective breakfasts in the heat of the room. Ben finishes first and drops the dirty bowl and spoon onto the floor before dipping his head onto Armie’s shoulder. He listens to the rim of the mug click against teeth and the heavy swallows of the hot coffee.

Ben is almost asleep again when he feels a kiss pecked on his mouth. He licks his lips and tastes coffee.

“Are you going to come to the diner tonight?” Armie murmurs.

“Hmm.” Ben has prior commitments to a landfill patch where his camera traps have been catching snapshots of strange grey things. He was going to have an all-nighter in the tip with his best cameras.

Armie’s head drops onto Ben’s. “It’s my last shift.”

“Yeah, I’ll come.”

“At three?”

“Mhmm.” Ben turns and kisses the side of Armie’s neck. “Do I still get free coffee?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

The mug thumps on the floor and Ben is tipped back on the mattress. He coughs when he stretches out and watches Armie slowly crawl up to lie over him, his hands go up Ben’s t-shirt and bump over his ribs until they reach his chest.

“You dirty, dirty old man,” Ben sniggers through the sleepy kiss Armie catches him into. “Is this all you can think about even though you’ve _just_ woke up?”

Armie snorts and scratches his teeth on the corner of Ben’s mouth, like he is just too lazy to even try anything. “Yeah, I’ve been just dreaming of grabbing your tits.” He squeezes his hands as if to prove it.

“Shove off, ass breath. I know you can’t stop thinking about my bod.”

“You say ‘bod’ again and I—”

Ben only needs to nudge Armie to get him to flop onto the mattress. He watches lazily as Ben pulls off his t-shirt and climbs up to sit on his hips, squeezing his thighs around Armie’s skinny sides.

“Though you are too tired.” Armie digs his fingers into the waistband of Ben’s shorts, inching them down his ass.

“Just trying to keep up with my boyfriend.” Ben smiles when Armie’s confused face brightens with a grin.

Ben leans down, chewing his lip when hands slip down the back of his shorts and pull on his boxers. He eases Armie into a lazy kiss that is all morning breath and cracked lips. Ben doesn’t even mind when they don’t get past that and he naps again while Armie sits at the crooked desk with his textbooks.

 

 

The air fresheners are dancing circles under the rear-view mirror, backlit by the lights of the diner. Ben has been sitting in his truck for fifteen minutes, pretending to sort through his filming equipment. He has triple checked all the SD cards and rewound the cords, but he can’t still hasn’t bought him enough time to get the words right.

Ben drops the strap of his camera bag and watches Armie wander back and forth in the diner with a mop. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his hair isn’t glued back, but at least his name tag isn’t crooked.

The sky is finally a good tone of black-blue after being stuck in a phase of pink for most of the night. Ben had watched it struggle between the colours as he sat in the landfill in the seat of a rusting car with his camera mounted where the steering wheel used to be.

Instead of monitoring the view finder, Ben followed the arrows of his wrist watch skimming through the hours. He was sure he would have enough time to figure out his thoughts, but he is still clueless as he gets out from his truck and walks up to the diner.

The door rings out hello as Ben steps through. Music is playing from behind the counter and cups clatter as Armie arranges the clean ones on the stacks. He barely notices Ben until he almost greets him like a customer. But then he leans over the counter, where Ben is sat on a bar stool, and kisses him with a mumbled “Hello.”

Ben watches as a chocolate sundae in a tall glass is dressed up with syrups and chocolate chunks and pushed toward him across the narrow strip of vinyl. Armie offers him a spoon and stands on the other side as he catches the sauce from his end of the glass.

As Ben spoons up the drooping chocolate flakes, Armie switches off his phone and turns on the radio. He flicks through the stations until a memory of the unknown 70s comes spilling into the diner through the speakers.

Ben can see that Armie is trying hard not to dance as brings his spoon back to the dripping desert and accidentally smudges the chocolate sauce across his lips with his thumb.

“No sasquatches or Jersey devils tonight?” Armie says with the spoon between his teeth.

“We aren’t in Jersey to start with.” Ben fights Armie for the last scoops of soft serve, manoeuvring around the chocolate chunks. “And nope. Just some old cats.”

When the remains of the ice cream are cleared off and Armie goes into the kitchen, Ben sits at the counter and goes through the camera recordings on his phone. He grapples for any second he can get, filing excuses in his head to make the night drag on as the glitches of the neon signs become his measure of time.

The song on the radio changes. ‘Stand By Me’. Ben knows it by the first notes and he can hear Armie humming to it in the kitchen. His smart, leather shoes click on the chipped tiles and scrape out the steps of a slow dance.

Ben leans back from the barstool to watch Armie’s silhouette leave the kitchen, backlit by the industrial lights that hang over the cooking equipment. Armie is jittery, but not in the way when he keeps tapping a pen at the same page because the words aren’t getting into his head. He is jittery in the way when he can’t keep still because a song gets inside his head.

Armie comes to the counter and leans across it, still humming, to take the phone out of Ben’s palms and replace it with his own hands. Ben bites on his weak smile as Armie swaying their joined hands from side to side, slowly beginning to rock them both to the rhythm of the song.

Ben pulls his hands away from Armie and says, “Come on, let’s dance.”

“What—?”

Armie stumbles back as Ben climbs onto the barstool and then onto the counter. He crouches like an ape, grinning impishly as he reaches out a hand to Armie.

“Get on here!” Ben tells him. “We’ve only got till the song ends.”

“What in the fuck are you doing?” Armie asks, but takes Ben’s hand and put his foot against the side of the counter as he is pulled up.

They stand on the vinyl surface with their heads almost touching the ceiling lights. Ben holds Armie by the elbows and drags him in position for a slow dance, swinging him through the steps as Armie watches their feet toe the edge of the table.

Ben loses his focus and slips, caught just in the moment by Armie as napkin stands drop onto the floor and sauce bottles roll to the end of the counter.

“Ben, stop!” Armie hisses, clinging onto Ben with sweaty hands. “I can get fired for this!”

“What does it matter?” Ben slows down with the music and squeezes back when he feels Armie’s hands tighten every time his shoes squeak on the counter.

“ _What does it matter_? I can lose my fucking credibility in this place.”

“It’s your last shift,” Ben says. “You can do whatever you want.”

Armie looks at him uncertainly, but then takes one of Ben’s hands and holds it while keeping the other on his waist. He follows Ben’s lead as the song dwindles on to its end, catching the sense of the made up steps. Slowly, as the notes drop away into silence, Ben and Armie pull each other in closer in the nonsense stumbling dance.

Ben thumps his face into Armie’s neck and mutters dimly, “I’m going to miss you, and this diner.”

Armie laughs, pulling him on through the last of their shuffling steps. “The diner isn’t leaving anywhere. You can still come here, if you want.”

Ben looks up and measures down Armie with his stare. “Don’t you get it?” he asks. “This place is like, legit liminal. But you leaving will change that because it won’t be fixed, like in space and time and stuff.”

“Very eloquent,” Armie snorts.

Ben puts his head back on Armie’s shoulder and holds him around his shoulders. The swaying dance ends when the song changes. They are left dumbly trying to follow the next rhythm, but end up standing while holding each other like some bad movie scene.

“Fu-uck—” Ben groans into Armie’s shirt collar. “I’m so gonna miss you…”

Armie laughs again and opens his mouth to speak when Ben continues.

“But especially your coffee. God, that shit is the only thing that is bitter and disgusting enough to keep me awake.”

Ben is shoved and almost thrown off the counter. He catches himself by gripping the ceiling lights and hanging onto the edge of the table with his toes. He is pulled back up when Armie yanks him by the front of his t-shirt and they end up being plastered together again.

“Sorry,” Armie gulps from where his face is mushed against Ben’s. “I didn’t mean to attempt murder.”

“’s okay. No hard feelings.”

Deciding not to take another attempt at their Final Destination scene recreation, Ben climbs off the counterand helps Armie sit down on the edge. With his feet swinging over the floor, Armie wrings his fingers and bites on the inside of his mouth as he watches Ben step in between his open legs.

“Look, I did mean it though.” Ben takes Armie’s hands, squeezing his calloused knuckles. “I’m gonna miss you. Not just spending time here.”

Armie looks at him through his fringe. His cold, skinny fingers curl around Ben’s dirty ones in turn.

“I’m gonna miss all of you,” Ben tells him.

Armie manages a smile. “I’m going to miss you too. Promise to call me after graduation?”

“Of course.”

Ben pulls Armie closer and leans in. There is still chocolate on his lips and Ben feels it stick to his mouth as he kisses Armie, reaching up to put hands on his shoulders to keep him close.

The vinyl counter creaks and the neon signs hum. Armie pushes against Ben and twists his fingers in his hair as he kisses Ben’s jaw, following down to his neck. There is a lazy bite on Ben’s shoulder and the kisses become nothing as they hold onto each other in the light of the diner. The plywood groans and the coffee machines hiss somewhere in the back. Armie twist Ben’s t-shirt in his hands.

A distant clatter of metal and wood. Something snaps and crashes. It’s muffled by brick and glass of the diner walls.

Ben and Armie stare at the Blockbusters across the road. The orange streetlights glitch and poppies dance in the wisps of the breeze.

Ben grabs his phone and pulls Armie off the counter by his hand, urging him toward the door,

“Come on, scoob,” Ben says with laughter in his voice as he runs with Armie into the summer night. “The cryptids call!”

 

 

 


End file.
